Master of Death
by rdemon
Summary: Harry was crumbling. There is a hole in him and nothing can fill it. And Harry knows that he is fraying right at the edges and will soon snap. Before that, he need to stop it before it even began. With the help of two very powerful 'dead' wizard. Well, lucky he is the Master of Death then. WARNING: This is AD/GG slash in a Harry oriented story. Rating may go up in later chapter.
1. Chapter 1

Summer of 1995

Albus Dumbledore clutched his middle, bent in half in pain as he panted kneeling on the floor. He's burning, hot and bright, feeling like someone tore him open inside out with a hundred burning knives, and then proceeded to dunk him in a boiling cauldron. He clawed at the floor desperately, whimpering incoherent words. Images run its course though his mind in a blurry kaleidoscope of colors until his head spins and his eyes blur, pounding memory after memory into his already overfilled head.

Pain, it was the only thing he felt; in his head, and searing across his body and marking his soul.

Faintly, he heard a voice calling his name frantically, desperate touches that he barely registered through his haze of pain, and he wanted to mutter comforting word, to ease the boy's mind, but nothing came out of his mouth but whimpers of pain and a gasp of much needed breath.

The burning got hotter and hotter, and the pain more intense until an anguished cry tore from his throat as the pain reached its peak higher, higher until it…stopped.

And he crumpled to the ground, all strength, mental and physical, depleted to nothing. Before he sunk into blessed unconsciousness, he saw a hand, curled into the floor and smooth with youth on where his were supposed to be.

And not six hundred miles away from Hogwarts where the Headmaster of Hogwarts lay curled in exhaustion was the pained screams of the sole prisoner of Nurmengard.

And the Master of Death smiled.

* * *

Sometime in the year 2030

Harry Potter (age 50) stood in the middle of the alchemy circle he drew. In his hand was a bowl of his blood mixed with the Elixir of Life, and the Resurrection Stone dunked inside the potent liquid. He laid the bowl in the middle of circle, backing away slowly until he was out of it, his lips muttering a powerful spell, chanting the words repeatedly.

His bright green eyes glow brighter with each uttered word, at first in the standard archaic Latin, before changing into the much more ancient language of Parseltongue as the magic swelled inside the room. The drawn mage circle glows bright, at first in the dark, almost black, purple color, before fading into a subdued shade of maroon, bathing the dark room with its light. Swirls of flaming red and violet blue ribbon rose from the bowl, spinning upward like smoke to form a twin tornado of each color.

Harry raised his right arm, his palm facing the red tornado of red smokey ribbon as he spoke, his voice laced with power. "Rise, Albus Dumbledore, great Wizard of Light, as I, Harry Potter, Master of Death, summon thee, so mote it be."

Orbs of flame shoot from his hand, and the red ribbon started to lace into the form of man, spinning frantically as it went.

Harry then turns his attention to the violet blue ribbon, and his eyes grew impossibly brighter. "Rise, Gellert Grindelwald, great Wizard of Dark, as I, Harry Potter, Master of Death, summon thee, so mote it be."

This time shards of ice are the one that left his palm into the swirling ribbon as it repeats the same process of its red twin.

Soon enough, two corporal forms could be seen; a beautiful, slender, auburn haired man with skin as pale as snow, and eyes as bright as the summer sky glowing bright red with a serene smile on his face, and a tall, lean man with one eye as pale as ice, and the other as stormy as a cloudy sky, a mop of golden curls on top of his head, and a handsome face marred with a frown glowing violet blue.

The two seem to be ageless; they look like they can either be in their late teens or early forties. Wizard age is quite ambiguous, after all.

Two stones, one burning with orange and yellow flames, and another one shining blue, white, and gray as the ice encasing it captured the light around it lay on their chests.

"Harry, my dear boy. Why have you called these two old souls to the plane of the living?" a disembodied lyrical voice asked, seemingly from nowhere as it bounced around the room like an echo.

"I am very not interested in this, but you better have good reason on as to why am I not blissfully dead," another voice spoke, a strong husky voice laced with the barest hint of an accent.

Harry smiled at the two great wizard apparition, his breath coming slightly in pants as he recovers slowly from the great magical exertion he put himself through. "I do have good reason for summoning the two of you. A very good reason."

The two apparitions exchanged a worried look at the grave tone Harry spoke with as the smile on his face melted off.

Harry looks up with a grim and determined look on his face as he fixed his bright green eyes on the two deceased. "I need your help to change the future."

* * *

Summer of 1995, No. 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging

Harry Potter (age 15) was pacing a hole on the floor in the smallest bedroom of No. 4 Privet Drive of his home, running a finger through his messy hair. An old copy of the Daily Prophet was on his bed, spread open as pictures of him flinching from the camera loop on one side of the page, and the words 'Potter' kept rearranging itself into 'Plotter' on the other.

No letters. Not one single letter. All summer he was alone with no one but himself, Hedwig, and his own paranoid thoughts. He felt like a cracked glass that a five year old child, or worse, Dudley, kept smashing into the wall, and like the glass, he was splintering to pieces, and there was nothing to Spellotape him together; not his friends, the Weasleys, Sirius, or Lupin, because they kept zero communication with him. Hedwig had sent at least a hundred letters to all said above, yet received no reply. He knows they all received his letters; he had instructed Hedwig to not leave until the delivered person read every single word he wrote to them. And Hedwig always came back, and everytime she came back empty handed.

Harry wrung his hand and chewed on his lips until they bleed, and he can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. Nightmares, memories mixed with his own morbid imagination and distorted grotesquely in his subconscious were haunting him every night. He had just woke up from another one, a hoarse scream on his lips, and didn't allow himself the reprieve of sleep ever again, afraid another one would emerge if he did.

Weary and extremely fatigued-he hasn't had a good night sleep in all summer-he swept the wizard newspaper to the ground and curled into a ball on the bed, taking a cat nap to ease his tired spirit so he can go another day.

He woke up to the sound of Aunt Petunia screeching like a harp to someone. She does that to insistent salespeople who had the unfortunate luck of gracing the Dursley doorstep, so Harry at first didn't think too much of it.

But she didn't stop, and he can hear Uncle Vernon's booming voice joining her screeching harp, and their voices kept increasing in volume until suddenly they just stop. That jerked Harry upright, and his ears perked at the absolute silence. The Dursley's are large humanoid whale after all, they stomp their way when they 'walk'. But he didn't hear even a creak, and Harry whipped his wand out and pointed it toward his door warily.

The doorknob turns slowly, and Harry crouched in a leaping stance on the bed, ready to dodge any attack that would come his way as the door slowly creaked open.

The Protégo charm on his lips, he watches as the door opens to reveal the Death Eater, or worse, Voldemort himself, and instead finds himself looking at a star-spangled robe of one Albus Dumbledore. Harry's heart leapt.

But a lifetime of near-death experiences taught him better than to just lower his wand, and he kept it trained on the Leader of Light, his Avada Kedavra eyes glinting in the dim light of his room's single light bulb. "Identify yourself," he ordered in a deadly calm voice that belies his pounding heart.

"Ask me a question that only the two of us would know," was the man's reply to Harry's wary order.

Harry frowned, thinking. "On my first year, what did Albus Dumbledore answer to the last question I'd asked as we stood in front of the mirror?"

Dumbledore smiled proudly, no doubt at the vagueness of the question and answered serenely. "I said that I see myself holding a pair of thick woolen socks."

Harry smiled and lowered his wand. Leaping off the bed, he rushed to the older man and engulfed him in a warm hug, a sob in his throat. "Professor."

"Oh, Harry, my dear boy, I am awfully sorry. I had left you here all alone because of an old man fears, and I deeply apologize for it," Dumbledore said grimly, a frown on his face.

"What do you mean Professor?" Harry asked, looking at the older man in confusion.

"I shall explain later on, for now, it is better if we move to a more secure location with more familiar faces."

Dumbledore took a look around the room an odd light in his icy blue eyes instead of its usual twinkle, and Harry tries to look at his room through stranger eyes. It is clean; Harry is too 'trained' by his aunt to ever not be clean. Not that there was anything in the room that was his except for the what is in the trunk and on the bed. Well, there is the Daily Prophet on the floor, but that is it.

"Where's the rest of your stuff, Harry? Is this all of them?" Dumbledore asked, looking at his trunk.

"Yes, professor, that and the stuff on the bed."

Dumbledore's mouth turned down under his beard, and Harry felt his professor's magic spike dangerously. Dumbledore waved his wand, and all Harry' stuff arranged itself in the trunk and snapped shut. Another wave and it shrunk as small as a box of match, and Harry pocketed it.

Dumbledore turned and stepped out of the room with Harry close behind.

"Professor, the Dursley's…"

"In the kitchen, locked in and silenced. The spells would finite itself as soon as we stepped out of the ward."

"Oh." Harry didn't know what else to say; Dumbledore seems so grim, anything else seems inappropriate. Harry, in all the time he has known Dumbledore, has never seen the man so grave. It's scaring him.

"I had originally intended for the Order to come by and pick you up if anything were to occur, but some unprecedented incident forced me to reevaluate my thought and change my mind. I realize that my decision to isolate you was wrong."

Harry stopped in his tracks, looking at Dumbledore in disbelief. "What do you mean by isolating me? Is that why no one has been replying to my letters? And what is the Order you're talking about?" he asked angrily.

Dumbledore looks at Harry with such sadness in his eyes that it really scares and confuses him. "Professor?!"

"The Order of Phoenix is a resistance group to fight Voldemort, and was founded during the first Britain Wizardly War. Your parents, godfathers, some of your teachers, the Weasleys and some of the Aurors, namely Moody, are amongst its starting member.

"They are all in one place right now; Sirius' birth-home, which is the current Order Headquarter."

"You didn't answer my first question, sir."

"I know, Harry. But not yet. This discussion cannot be done here of all places."

Dumbledore extends one arm to Harry, beckoning him to take it. Harry looks at it warily. A thousand question was on his mind and on the tip of his tongue, and he almost refused Dumbledore's extended hand and demand answers now. But damn his ingrained politeness; he did nothing of such, and held on tight as Dumbledore spun on the ground and Apparates out of there.

It was an odd sensation, Apparating, he felt like he was being sucked through a long narrow tube. His eyes seem to catch random images and it spun his head around. It is terribly uncomfortable and much worse than Flooing.

He vomits as soon as his feet touch solid ground, and decides to not ever do that again. Dumbledore held him as he emptied the meager content of his stomach on the ground and dry heaved when there's none left. He clutched his burning throat and coughed hoarsely.

"Here, open your mouth." Dumbledore cast a cleaning spell, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth. "Are you alright?"

Harry grimaced but nodded and straightened to take a better look around him.

They were on top of a rolling hill, and in the distance Harry can see the castle stood high and mighty. Behind them was the impressive valley of mountain that surrounds Hogwarts, and the forest in front of them was the forbidden forest. That means they're at the border of the ward that protects Hogwarts.

Dumbledore took out two shrunken brooms that he then wandlessly de-shrinks, and hands the other one to Harry. "Well, shall we?"

To Be Continued…

**Please R & R!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Last chapter was supposed to be the prologue and this was supposed to be chapter 1 but FFnet wouldn't let me do that so...yeah. Okay, last chapter and this chapter was Beta-ed by caramelapple74 who to my eternal gratitude made this somewhat corrigible. And to all who put me on their Favorite and Alert, thank you. Now, if you will just review as well that'd be great.**

It started raining halfway through to Hogwarts, but they arrived at the castle dry, courtesy to Dumbledore. But the rain, though brief, took some of the heat away, and Harry didn't feel as uncomfortable in his sweat dried t-shirt as he did before.

"Um, professor?" Harry asked apprehensively, looking at the quiet Headmaster.

"Let's go up to my office first and we'll talk there. After that we'll go to the Order HQ if you still feel like it of course."

"Sure, I would. Why wouldn't I?" Harry asked suspiciously. The Headmaster shrugged, and the gesture looks so foreign on him that Harry frowned. Is he really Dumbledore?

He briefly considered that maybe this isn't Dumbledore and that he had went with a complete stranger to his death. But the question he had asked in his room was a valid question, and no one but he and the Headmaster knew of it, after all. He told no one of it. And knowing Dumbledore, the older man wouldn't give away any information unless it is completely relevant or necessary. He's weird that way.

But he was acting really odd. As reassurance, Harry slipped his wand from his back pocket into his right sleeve, just incase. One can't be too careful these days.

They entered through one of the less used entrances of the castle and went straight to the Headmaster's Office. The journey was, for lack of better word, creepy. Harry was used to the portraits moving and talking even when the corridors were empty, but no one was in their picture. Nor did they meet any ghost or the castle mascot poltergeist, Peeves. This continued all the way to the Headmaster's Office, as all the previous Headmaster and Headmistress' portraits were empty.

"I asked them to browse the other part of school and leave the area alone so we can speak freely."

Damn if that didn't sent a shiver of apprehension down his spine, but Harry squared his shoulders and looked straight and tried to be brave. Gryffindor valor here after all. Never mind the fact that he literally has Slytherin blood in him, but he was sorted in Gryffindor and did all kind of stupid death defying stunts that would have killed him if he wasn't so damn lucky. So what's some talk?

Oh Merlin, bloody Salazar, Godric-damn, sweet Helga, and hail Rowena don't let him freak out!

"Harry?"

"Yes, professor?"

"You look pale. Did Apparating so suddenly still wear on you? Maybe you want to take the night to rest and we'll talk tomorrow? We will have more time like that."

That was such a tempting offer that Harry didn't even think he could be prideful and demand answers like he intended. He agreed. Sleep was sparse for him, and being at Hogwarts always soothes him more than being at the Dursley's. A good night sleep on a bed that doesn't creak and smell like musk, with no two humanoid whale snore shaking the house apart, and where he can freak out in peace was too tempting to say no.

"Alright. You can sleep in the Headmaster quarter spare room. I'll transfigure some pajamas for you; the clothes you have don't seem to be comfortable."

Harry simply nodded and went up the gargoyle moving staircase, slightly less freaked out.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore had breathed a relieved sigh when Harry had readily accepted his offer to rest. It will give him more time to settle his mind, and allow him more time to prepare himself. So how do you tell him that 'someone' from the future had visited him and gave him a tour of what was Harry's home life was like, and told him that if you don't fix this the world is going to go into war even after your plan actually WORKED.

Definitely not by ignoring him all summer then quite literally carting him off in an empty school with nothing but a very vague explanation and suspicious behavior. He was well aware that Harry had switched his wand to a more convenient spot than his back pocket due to his rather out of character behavior, but what can a man do?

He folded the letter he was writing, cast a mild weather protection spell on it, and tie it to the school barn-owl to be sent to the Order.

He just had a glimpse of the future and it was ugly. And that was a lot to take in, especially when the person that brought him the great news was himself. Literally.

So what is he going to tell Harry?

_ "How about the truth? It will be simpler, and he wouldn't distrust you more than he already has."_

Albus head whipped up at the sound of his own voice and he stares at the mirror image of his youth standing in front of him.

"I don't want Harry to feel like I've betrayed him," Dumbledore said in a small voice, feeling his age and yet quite childish when he said it.

_"The problem is, dear Headmaster, you did. He put his trust in you, he believed that you would be the one person he could depend on, and yet you saw a mere glimpse of a broken man in him and allowed it to scare you off a boy who needed your help."_

Dumbledore was silent as he absorbed his alter ego words, and fought back the reproaching tears stinging his eyes.

"Perhaps if we were to do it now, I will be more prepared."

_"Are you certain? From what Harry told us, it will be very painful when we meld our mind and soul."_

"Yes. Being ignorant would not help my case. It is better like this."

* * *

"Why wouldn't they be here just yet? What exactly did Dumbledore mean when he said that they are_ 'slightly delayed due circumstances and will only be at the Order HQ tomorrow?'_" Sirius Black asked frantically as he wrung the letter in his hand around.

Alastor Moody rolled his eyes, yes, even the un-fake one, and shook his head at the Sirius Black antics. He was one of the people that really went against the zero contact to Harry Potter, trying over and over again to slip one letter reply to the Boy-Who-Lived, and if it wasn't for Shacklebolt stopping him, he would no doubt succeed.

Not that Alastor has anything against what young Black was doing. Every now and then, the old coot Dumbledore gives an outrageous and seriously stupid order and allowing an ex-Death Eater (namely one Severus Snape) into the ranks was one and this was another. How exactly is isolating the boy who supposedly will destroy the Dark Lord would help the cause?

But then again, the senile old coot made the most damnable plan that 98.5% worked most of the time, so he must know what he's doing. Or, the damned old man is the luckiest man alive.

"Sirius, calm down. Dumbledore must have a good reason. And he didn't say we wouldn't see Harry, he only said that we wouldn't see him until tomorrow! So stop pacing around, you're making us dizzy."

Ah, the great werewolf Remus Lupin. Always so polite and placating of his friend. It irritates him. Just because the man spent twelve years in Azkaban on false charges doesn't mean that he has to be damn coddled! Be a man and deal. Beside, his godson had it worse than little boy Black here, and do you see him whining around being a pain? No, Harry Potter is a soldier. He's made of a tougher material than his precious godfather that was always going around wanting a pat on the head and sweets nothing whispered in his ear.

"Remus, right Sirius dear. Dumbledore knows what he's doing. We'll see him tomorrow after all."

Sweet Molly. She's always so maternal. No wonder she had seven kids, even if the twins was something the devil spawned himself, he swears it. They're always asking the worst confidential thing, putting their paws on his stuff, Apparating their way room to room, and using magic recklessly just because they're of age. They got brain though. He'll give them that.

"But, Molly, I miss him," the dog whined. Merlin knows how he got to be an Animagus, never mind one that so oddly reminiscent of a Grim. Damn wuss. "I want to see little Prongslet!"

Alastor knows that the Potter boy Patronus was a stag and that James Potter Animagus form was a stag, but he never consider the nickname Padfoot had for the boy was appropriate. Harry Potter always remind him of a panther, silence as death with piercing gaze, blending in when he wants to be invisible, but hard to ignore when he wasn't. He got the claws and the teeth too, he fights with his entire body and isn't wholly dependent of his wand like most witch and wizard. And the boy is fast. He seen the boy took off during the Quidditch World Cup, just after he accepted Dumbledore's offer on that crazy jinxed teacher post. He ran like the wind. And if he had any say, he would be training the boy to be an Auror. Sucks that he didn't.

Well, looks like Black isn't going to stop whining. He has better things to do than listen to pointless whine. Well, that's a lie since the idiot Minister is useless, and Alastor can somewhat tolerate working with mad man, he cannot deal with idiots. Nu-uh. No siree.

Well, maybe he can go and take a peek at the 'delay' Dumbledore was talking about. The man seems to be in a hissy mood of late. It can be interesting. Well, it's not like he has anything better to do. He'll just drop by to Hogwarts (it is not wand lore after all, so obvious that they'd be there) and then go on his merry way. What's the worse can happen, right?

**A/N So like it? Please, please review. You get faster updates if you did *biggest puppy eyes ever to all who's reading this***


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N I made some last minute edits so if you found any mistakes, it is all mine. Beta-ed by caramelapple74.**

Harry woke up to a hoarse scream of pain. At first he thought it was his; he woke with his own scream ringing in his own ear often enough, and half the time didn't recognize it was his. But the scream that woke him was definitely not his. Firstly, it sounded distant, as if it was from somewhere outside the room he was in. Second, his throat isn't sore. He always screams his throat sore during his nightmare fits. And third, he can hear another scream and he was most definitely awake and not screaming.

Armed with those facts, he put on his glasses, grabbed his wand and leaped for the door, using the screams as his guide.

He went down the winding stairs, his feet muffled in the carpet as he drew closer and closer to the screams. It has crescendo higher and higher, shot by the occasional grunts of pain and Harry body was taut with wariness and apprehension.

What the hell was going on? He wondered and as he goes, his mind barely registered the fact that he was heading toward the Headmaster Office.

The door of the said-office was slightly open when he reached there, and with a gulp Harry pushed it open wider.

And came face to face with the headmaster kneeling on the floor of his office, looking like he was under the Cruciatus curse. He took a quick look around the room and saw no immediate reason for the Headmaster's apparent misery. He heard Dumbledore whimper painfully, and Harry kneeled next to the man but hesitates to touch him when he notices the faint red glow that shrouds the man.

"Professor? What's going on? Help, I need help!" Nodding to himself decidedly, he made to go to the fireplace and Fire-call someone over. Maybe professor McGonagall or Snape, even if he didn't like the guy…but a hand on his arm stopped him.

Harry's bright green eyes met Dumbledore's deep blue ones, and he saw the plea in the older man's face.

"Professor, you need help," he said, but it came out a question. Dumbledore gave him a shaky shake of his head before curling up in a fetal position when another wave of pain hit him hard. Dumbledore gripped Harry's arm so tight that he winced, but Harry didn't move from where he kneeled next to the Headmaster. He wanted to do something, anything, but the hand on his arm and the shake of the Headmaster's head has him frozen.

Harry was good at not listening to rules and generally giving the finger to the constitutional in general, but he tends to listen when it is from a specific person (namely Dumbledore, Moody, McGonagall and Mrs. Weasley) in the form of an order and doesn't go against his disposition as the oh-so-awesome-Savior. This is not why he listened to Dumbledore's silent order.

Problem is, Harry is cracking and he thinks he may snap in less than thirty seconds if Dumbledore doesn't stop screaming.

Surprisingly, he did.

Harry doesn't know whether that's a good thing or the worst thing to happen.

Oh, bloody hell.

* * *

You know the feeling you get when you were dreaming and you think you were falling, only to be suddenly jolted awake by you making impact to the floor because you fell out of your bed and all of a sudden you're awake, albeit painfully so?

Well, Harry isn't dreaming and he doesn't think he's waking up anytime soon, but the feeling was similar. He was falling into a bottomless abyss, and yet not. He felt oddly detached, taking in all the odd details, like how there's a lot of junk braided into Albus Dumbledore beards (some of them rune-lettered charms that he actually managed to recognize), that there was, unbelievably enough, a tattoo (a tattoo! )of a phoenix on fire cradling an odd sigil sign; a line inside a circle framed in a triangle, was on the man usually concealed chest; now ripped open in the severe seizures of pain and the fact that he can see Dumbledore's thick woolen sock; striped in blue, green and indigo as the man writhes on the floor.

Yet, Harry was anything but detached, feeling like a hot coal had landed on him and he was flapping around like a fish out of water but he can't do anything to get it off. A litany of the professor's name fell from his lips like a prayer, hoping even one word would get through the older man's haze of pain and reassure him of Harry's presence. He tried rubbing the man's back, squeezing the man's arm, hoping that the physical touch can at least soothe the distraught man even if it does nothing but to ease the pain.

The red glow had shined brighter, but Harry was too frozen with his own thoughts to register it lucidly. He did, however, know that the magic was peaking. The man seems to glow brighter and brighter, but Harry kept his hand clutching the man until it burned to do so.

Soon the red glow was so bright that he felt like he was staring into the sun and as it glowed brighter, he can hear the Headmaster's pained cry as the impact of the unknown spell pushed him back from his kneeling position a couple feet back.

Harry opens the eyes he didn't realize shut close in the fiasco and stares up to the ceiling. His ear was ringing, and he was uncomfortable from his awkward sprawl on the floor. He scrambled to his knees and froze when he saw, well, the last thing he ever expected to see.

In Albus Dumbledore's ridiculous star-spangled robes, striped socks and half moon glasses was a young man. Who is also, no doubt one of the prettiest young men he has ever met.

Dark auburn hair spill in thick wavy waist-length tresses around slender effeminate face, skin as white as freshly spilled snow and lips that looks like blood was smeared on it. He was lithe, the robes draping him loosely but with the barest hint of a muscle. And on his chest was the phoenix sigil tattoo he just saw on Albus Dumbledore.

* * *

Thunder shook the great structure of Nurmengard, almost as if in a reverie welcome of the rise of its single occupant, curly blonde hair thick on where it used to be thin, strong muscle on where there were before only skin and frail bones. Dull deep blue and gray eyes now have a dark mischievous glint in them, giving them life as they glitter in the dark of the prison cell. He smiled in morbid fascination as he looks at his reformed body and chuckled darkly. A whisper so faint made him tilt his head, and he nodded briefly as if in agreement to something unknown.

Stretching, he relished in the feel of his youthful body, and again the smile graced his plump lips. He extend one arm, palm to the sky and cast his very first spell in decades.

_"Accio wand."_

And as fourteen inches of mahogany dragon heartstring core, stiff, flew across the sea from his safe house to his prison, only one thing was on his mind.

Albus Dumbledore.

**A/N Please, please review. I really would want some feedback. **


	4. Chapter 4

**To Belladonna Dumbledore, thank you for your review! Like always, beta-ed by caramelapple74**

* * *

Moody Flooed in through Mrs. Rosmerta fireplace under disguise of a random Muggle whose hair he plucked on his way to Diagon Alley. On such dangerous time and after the reckless mistake he made last year, Alastor can't afford to not be vigilant. Even with the disguise, he made sure he covered most of his face under hats and scarves despite it being one of hottest summers to grace Great Britain. No one is the wiser of who he is as he passed them on the street as he went on to Hogwarts. He's pretty sure that Albus is there. He's going to have to get to Filch and asked him to get to the old coot on 'official businesses'. That always worked before, he's certain it'd work now. There's also the chance that Filch wouldn't let him in, but that's nothing a good hex wouldn't fix.

He chuckled at the thought of hexing the butt off the caretaker and thought back on one of the hexes the damnable Weasley twin had created. Devil spawns or not, the boys had some good stuff up their sleeves, and he decidedly absorbed it into his repertoire with a slight kick that is all him. Good time, good time.

Well, he is Mad-Eye Moody after all. It wouldn't do if he didn't live up to his reputation, he'd thought with a seriously evil smirk.

* * *

Aches everywhere was the very first thing that registered to Albus when he slowly came to consciousness. It felt like someone had pulled his skin and stretched his limbs, a lot like he felt after a particularly long hike up a very steep hill times a hundred coupled with probably the worst headache he ever had in his life.

The second thing that he noticed was the fact that he felt odd. Like he wasn't in his own skin.

With a pained groan, Albus hauled himself up with an effort, supporting all of his upper body weight on his elbows and blearily opened his eyes.

Somehow, everything looks, clearer. As if his eyes were fogged glass before and someone wiped their hands on it. It wasn't crystal clear or anything, he'll still require his glasses to see better if he needs to read and such, but it wasn't as bad as it used to be.

Surprised, he put one hand up to his face and confirmed that he wasn't wearing his glasses. Then he took a look of his hand and for the first time in 80 years, Albus Dumbledore cussed.

His hand, wrinkled with age and knobby with bent bones, was smooth and slender, just like it was almost too long ago. His jaw dropped as he stares at his hand in disbelief. An auburn lock fell to his eyes, and he almost pushed it back before remembering that his hair hasn't been auburn or any shade of color but white since 30 years ago.

Then the lack of familiar sensation on his face made him palm his face, and his hand encountered nothing but smooth skin. His three feet worth of beard is also gone. He felt oddly mournful about that.

A sound to his side whipped his head around, and for a moment, Albus savored the fact that his neck didn't feel like it was getting strung up and hung on a butcher hook whenever he moved it too abruptly in his gold age, and almost moaned in delight.

But he didn't of course. Mostly because his favorite student was looking at him like he was a clone of dear old Tom Riddle/oh-so Dark Lord Voldemort, and is currently pointing his wand right at him. Question is why he is here…

Oh, he must have forgotten to put up a Silencing Spell. Harry must have heard him scream when the fusion had taken place. Well, that is unfortunate. Wait…

The fusion! Immediately, Albus delved into the kaleidoscope of his memories and found…everything. It was successful, his dead future spirit and his wizened body of the past had merged successfully. With a very, very unexpected side effect.

With a groan, he got up to a sitting position and his feet accidentally brushed the amulet he had braided in his beard at his feet. Huh.

Albus turned to look at Harry and smiled gently, seeing that the boy was very much distraught and confused. He looked young. Like a frightened child.

That was rare, for Harry. Even when he had re-met him for the first time when he was eleven, Harry never seemed young. His eyes held a maturity that most boys his age wouldn't have until they were very much older. He carry himself with a purpose and seems to hold a certain wariness for the world as if he expected the ground beneath him to crumble and he was ready to jump if that were to happen. He was intelligent, yet hid it artfully beneath average grade. Albus would know, he overviewed all of Harry's assignments himself. The hint of his intelligence was there in the printed words if one knows where to look. The only thing he allowed himself to excel in is Quidditch and DADA, even that was under sufferance.

It always bemuses him as to why a boy as brilliant and powerful as Harry would downgrade himself so much. Well, he thought with a dark glint in his eyes, not anymore.

"Harry? Are you alright? I'm certain you have had quite a shock but I can explain." His voice was soft, melodious, and not roughened by age.

"Who are you? Why are you in Professor's clothes? You can't be, you aren't…" Harry trailed off incredulously, peering at the auburn haired pretty man in front of him warily.

Albus sighed. Maybe he really didn't think this through.

"Oh, gee, you think?" said a voice oddly reminiscent of him, and Albus shook his head subtly to rid him of the thought.

"Yes, Harry, I am. I am Albus Dumbledore."

**Short chapter I know. Sorry for the late update by the way, I was having a real hard time writing this. I am already a couple of chapters ahead and got the whole plot in my head but putting it to type is harder than I expected. But I will update every other Saturday just for consistency. Hopefully you won't have to wait longer than a fortnight most. Anyway, review please!**

**P.S Do you think it is necessary for me to put up a disclaimer? I mean, this IS a FANFICTION site...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Betaed by caramelapple74. Awesome gurl that she is!**

* * *

He transfigures his plain cotton prison outfit and prison sheets-after a very thorough cleaning spell-into a pair of black, form fitting jeans, a peasant shirt, hoodie and a trench-coat. He made sure that it was inconspicuous enough in both the Muggle and Wizarding world to blend in easily. He ripped the leather off his extensive books-he has a photographic memory, and kept the books more out of sentimentality than use really-to make a satchel for his things, and cast a Weatherproofing spell on it.

Pulling the hood over his head and muttering an advanced level of Notice-Me-Not spell and a Muggle repellent charm, he finites the wards with a mage circle, courtesy of one Master of Death, and went on his way.

For his first task, he needs...Max.

Smirking, Gellert apparates out as soon as he was out of the Nurmengard boundaries, and appeared in a cloud of mist, smack right in the middle of modern day Paris. But barely anybody glances at the man's sudden appearance. Gellert had ensured to cast a very powerful Muggle-Repellent Charm and Notice-Me-Not. Just because he had repent his way doesn't mean he'll suddenly have any tolerance for Muggles, he thought with a sneer.

Unfortunately, his only useful and somewhat trustworthy living contact was here. Being what he is, the Wizarding World was not a place Max likes to be, but his affectionate personality, to put it very politely, makes it impossible for him to even think of seclusion in the mountains. Gellert simply hopes that he would be here.

He took a compass out of his pocket, flipped the cover open and tapped it thrice with his wand. "Point me to Max."

The compass hand swirled around before stopping with a blue glow. Words paint the glass of the compass before dissolving, showing the needle alone.

He strode purposefully down the street, taking seemingly random crooks and turns before coming to a stop in front of a large warehouse. Gellert stares at the building with something close to bemusement before a wicked smile curves on his handsome face and he chuckled.

Well, this is an unexpected development. But it made things infinitely easier.

Taking out his wand, he silently cast a few spells and watches contently as the 'warehouse' dissipates, revealing a small manor surrounded by a dimly lit garden and rusting gates. He could hear faint sounds of music coming from the house and strode forward, wands at hand.

He has a slave to re-possesses.

* * *

They sat across the coffee table facing each other as Harry stared at the young 'Albus Dumbledore'. Don't freak out, don't freak out was the mantra he kept repeating in his head, but as he stares at the red-headed youth in front of him he was failing miserably.

Harry Potter is freaking the hell out, and the smiling teen (young Albus Dumbledore, oh my Godric, is that even possible!) in front of him isn't helping matters at all.

Okay. Focus. Let's draw some parallels first. He knows Dumbledore was ginger. He had seen it in Tom Riddle's Diary during the memory excursion. Forty year old Dumbledore's hair had been a very dark red, streaked with grey, and very long. Just like the boy in front of him, minus the grey. The Weasleys had red flaming hair that was almost orange, and young Albus Dumbledore has hair that looks like red wine coloring poured on orange. Auburn, but not quite. Longer than the forty year old's, but similar length to the 100+?

Next, eyes. Brilliant dark blue that twinkles a lot. Same. Right down to the flecks of opaque that made it shine in low light.

Nose. Long, straight nose, slightly crooked, but not as much as the elderly one. Doesn't seem like it was ever broken. But similar enough to freak Harry.

Mouth. Okay, since he's never quite seen Dumbledore's mouth (beard) that's a moot point.

Face. Still the same slender, thin shape, but again, beard covering half said face.

Body, tall (6'0), same, thin-about ten stone ten, give or take-again, same, overlarge feet, same, and small hands, which is again same.

Posture; minimally spaced knees when sitting with interlaced finger on said knee, spine back when relaxed, minimally taut when isn't (which how it is right now) and head tilted slightly to the side. Same, same, same.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Well, if it turns out that the dude is fake young Albus Dumbledore and the real Albus Dumbledore is somewhere else, he had disarmed him (Young Dumbledore) as soon as he (Young Dumbledore) had reached for his wand that he (Old Dumbledore) dropped. And now the wand, heavy on his arm, niggling with powerful magic that had Harry's hair stood up on its end rested in Harry holster. Well, it is Dumbledore's wand after all.

Harry gripped his wand tighter in his hand and turned to look at the Young Dumbledore with piercing, fierce emeralds. "Explain." One word, no more. If he had to speak more than a simple monosyllable, Harry is afraid his mouth is going to run with him. And he is so going to lose it.

"I'm afraid that will be difficult." Oh Merlin, he even speaks the same. Slow, gentle voice, each word pronounced with soothing lyrical quality if slightly less husky. So beyond Rowena screwed.

"Why?" Stick to monosyllable. You're doing great. Come on. Just a bit more then you can push.

…

Oh, Salazar, that sounds so wrong in his head. What Harry wouldn't do to have Ron's simplistic head right now.

"It's complicated. I—I found it difficult to explain as all factors aren't presented to me. This transformation wasn't meant to happen, you know."

"Oh?" M.O.N.O.S.Y.L.L.A.B.L.E. Awesome.

Young Dumbledore gnawes on his lips as he contemplates his words, clenching and unclenching his hand in his lap, his dark wine red hair curtaining his face. He took a deep breath as if to brace himself for impact, and look Harry in the eyes. Unperceivable, Harry clenched his wand tighter.

"This was supposed to be a merging of souls so I may access future memories from my ghost of the future as per instructed by your future counterpart."

Well. That clears it.

NOT.

Oh, Merlin, can't his life gets any worse?

* * *

**A/N Sorry for the late update and short chapter. My laptop are broken and I had to use my mom instead. And wouldn't you know it, Brother No 1 and Brother No 2 kept whinging about me using the laptop and want's it for themselves. Blah blah, I'm the oldest so the best goes to me! Anyhow, someone told me that this is similar to a fic called 'Warlock's Apprentice' that has apparantly been discontinued. I hope not but just you know, I never heard or even read of 'Warlock's Apprentice and all story line and OC are my own! Review and you will have cookies!**


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